Page 189 of Bitter Poetry

My eyes track her passage.

I blink a few times.

You’ve gotta be shitting me.

Carmela…

The ants ramp up to a fucking frenzy. I stab blindly in the general direction of the door release button, trying to get my foot through a gap that’s not yet there.

“Going in after all, then?” Roman says cheerfully.

I don’t answer him. I’m on a mission. The car door finally opens, and I pitch onto the sidewalk. Ahead of me, she disappears into the coffee shop… the same coffee shop the fucking Russians are in.

Fuck that shit!

“Stay in the car,” I call to Roman.

No way he will stay in the car… he’s going to follow me

Fuck!

CARMELA

Le Petit Café.

I’ve been outside my comfort zone from the moment I left Dante’s apartment, but a form of elation hits me as I see the familiar thick, black-framed coffee shop windows reflecting back the sun and passing traffic. It feels surreal being here again. It must only be a couple of weeks—three at the most—yet my world and my place in it have gone through turbulence in between.

I’ve never walked here before, nor this far—ever. I’m more of a Pilates kind of girl. Jessica likes to jog. Since she’s been staying with my father, that’s mainly on a treadmill in the basement of their brownstone.

I can’t worry about Jessica right now. She will be disappointed in me for coming back. What she will say when I follow through on my plan, I can’t begin to imagine.

Made men kill all the time. They have to, if they want a place in our world. It almost seems easy for them. I’m sure it’s not, nor will it be for me.

Only I have conviction on my side.

He’s guilty, and he needs to pay.

The old wooden door creaks as I enter a place outside of time with its mismatched tables and chairs, and an age-worn wooden counter behind which Tony is busy restocking a cake dome.

The thrill of arrival, of navigating my way here alone when I’ve never been alone a day in my life, is short-lived and followed by a douse of cold water because this is where I’m about to enact my plan.

A sepia rolls over the interior as a cloud moves to block the sun outside the window.

The familiar scent of roasting coffee, the sound of chinking cups and the quiet conversation from the few patrons’ presentwould usually soothe me. Today it feels off like chalk scraping over a chalkboard.

My eyes skim over the occupants. It’s quiet. The lull before lunchtime, maybe. Only Tony is at the counter. My perusal abruptly halts on two heavy-set men with buzz cuts and leather jackets.

Soldiers.I snatch my gaze away and jolt out of my stupor.

Not our kind of soldiers.

The other kind.

The enemy kind, or just plain old street thugs?

“Can I help you?” Tony calls.

My palms turn sweaty, and a hot tide rolls down my spine. Head down, I hurry over to the counter. My legs have lost all coordination, and I stub my toe on a chair on the way.